Ravens flew past overhead, cawing in delight at the warm air. A procession of priests passed them on the raised sidewalk, the voices raised in a chant to the eternal sun. Golden disks were stitched to their long robes, and the lead man carried a solar emblem on a tall pole. Nicholas stepped aside to let them pass, even though it meant that he had to squish through the offal in the middle of the street. Dwyrin hopped after him. The street canted sharply downward, plunging off the hill that held the Hippodrome. A boulevard led down to the harbors on the southwestern side of the city.
Dwyrin was winded by the time they crossed the Racing District and reached the huge brooding gate that opened through the sea walls. A broad road disgorged from the Bovine gate and led down into the controlled chaos of the military harbor. His pack seemed to have become much heavier since he had arrived in the city. His head was still throbbing, too. No more wine for me, he pledged, raising an image of the shrine of Macha in his village before him. Particularly this nasty resinated stuff they serve here. The free-flowing wine, meat, and bread of the Imperial Triumph had left their mark on him. The excellent muscle tone that he had gained under Blanco and Zoe's tutelage and on a thousand miles of Asian road was suffering.
They passed out of the shadow of the towering brick seawalls and walked down a wooden pier broader than the main street of Dwyrin's home village. A forest of ship's masts rose around them, and the air rang with the cry of quartermasters and sailors and the cawing of seagulls. Flocks of the dirty white birds filled the air, casting endlessly moving shadows on the men laboring in the harbor. Nicholas counted piers, finally turning at the sixth one. The wooden quay was choked with piles of crates under nets and rows of barrels. Dwyrin stuck close to the taller man as they wove through the press. Lines of soldiers squatted or sat on the dock, their kit bundled at their feet. Most of them seemed to be Imperials with short-cropped dark hair and proud noses. They watched the two barbarians pass without comment.
Nicholas continued on, past the hulking shapes of troop transports, and finally reached the end of the dock. A low-sided ship with peeling paint, a dingy cabin, and faded markings was moored there. Nicholas bounded up the ramp, the springy wood flexing under his boots. "Ho, the boat!" His voice rolled out over the craft and roused a sailor who was napping under a striped sunshade hung over the stern deck. The man, a dark-skinned fellow with a beard of tightly curled ringlets, opened one eye and waved, his hand languid in the air. Dwyrin took the gangway at a more sedate pace and put down his bags with a hearty sigh. The smell of the sea, sharp with the smell of rotting fish on the shore and cast-up garbage thrown from passing ships, was beginning to cut through the haze in his head.
Nicholas waved to the sailor as he went forward and banged on the door to the fore cabin. There was no answer, so he gave it a kick and it bounced open, making a tremendous rattle. He turned, looking back up the deck. The Hibernian boy was picking up his bags again. "We can leave when you please, Master Tirus!"
Nicholas flashed the sailor a broad smile. Even the feel of a ship at rest, barely shifting in its mooring, made him feel at home. So much better than the grim, tight streets of the city! "Come on, lad, we've much to discuss."
Dwyrin sighed deeply and slung the tent pole on his shoulder again. The centurion's obvious good humor and nervous energy were giving him a new headache.
The fore cabin was little bigger than the cubicle that Dwyrin had been sleeping in, but it had two windows on either side with wooden shutters and four beds. A table folded out from the far wall. Dwyrin ducked under the door lintel and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Nicholas had unstrapped the longsword from his back and pushed it into a pile of gear on one of the bunks. The other bunk was occupied, though the man sleeping in it was turned away with a blanket pulled over his head.
"Vlad, time to get up. The reinforcements are here." Nicholas poked the sleeping man with the tip of his boot. There was a grunting sound. Dwyrin dumped his gear on the lower bunk on the side opposite. His head felt better now that they were in out of the sun. The forge hammer that had started to beat in the back of his skull receded somewhat. It was still there, but now it was muted.
The sleeping man grunted again, but threw back the blanket and shifted himself out of the bunk. His shirt was off, and Dwyrin's eyes widened at the thick pelt of hair that covered his chest and back. It was low and napped like the fur of a shorthaired cat, though it covered only part of his arms. The man had a mane of blue-black hair, too. The fellow looked up, and Dwyrin stiffened, seeing the line of his skull and the cast of his eyes.
Nicholas turned, his lips twisted in a wry grin. "Dwyrin, this is… what in Hell's name is that?"
Dwyrin had stood, though his legs were shaking, and his hand-seemingly so slow-had traced a mark in the air. It hung, flickering and green, in the still air of the cabin. The boy's face was taut with fear and his lips moved, though no sound came out. Nicholas felt a humming in his head, a whine that was rapidly rising in tone. In the pile of his baggage, Brunhilde was quivering, her blade echoing the sound with its own vibration. Nicholas felt Vladimir stiffen and stand up. The glyph was beginning to spin on its long axis, tumbling faster and faster in the air.
"Centurion, get behind me." Dwyrin's voice was harsh with worry. "Quickly!"
Nicholas raised his hands and moved forward between the boy and Vladimir. His heart was thudding with the rush of blood-fire. He hoped he could manage to coax a soothing tone out of his throat. "Lad, it's fine-Vladimir is with me; he's in the cohort… He's no danger to us."
Dwyrin flicked his eyes from Vladimir, who was half crouched on the floor, his hands on the decking, for an instant. Nicholas caught them and nodded, trying to put all the meaning he could in the glance.
"Centurion… this creature is not any human soul. It feeds on blood of your kind and mine. Are you sure you want to call it friend?"
Nicholas nodded sharply and dropped his hands. "Yes, lad. I owe Vladimir my life. We are bound to one another by our own debts. Put the… whatever that is… away before it does someone a harm."
Dwyrin shuddered, remembering a time of slow, cruel terror in the hands of just such a creature, but he saw the calm appeal in the centurion's eyes and he broke his concentration. The glyph shimmered, sending a fall of sparks like flower petals to the floor, and then faded away. The humming and the metallic keening in the room faded away as well, though Dwyrin now realized that there were four beings in the room, rather than just three. When the green fire had died, the beast-man named Vladimir breathed a sigh of relief and stood.
"Thank you," said the Walach to Dwyrin, sketching a half bow. "It is not easy for me, either, living among the children of day. But I pledge you that I mean neither you nor Nicholas any harm."
Dwyrin's eyes narrowed to slits, hidden anger threatening to boil forth in fire, but he repressed the urge to call forth the embers hiding in the creature's blood. He wiped his forehead, which had beaded with sweat during the exertion of summoning the ward. It seemed more difficult now-he had grown used to feeling Zoe's touch, and Odenathus', through their battle-pattern. He kept waiting for them to slide into the matrix, adding their own strength to his.
"Come," Nicholas said, clearing some dirty plates off of the little folding table. "We will be underway soon, and I need to tell you what we are about."
– |"…and that is about it." Nicholas tapped his teeth idly with a stylus. Night had fallen on the nameless ship and it rolled easily, cutting across the swells coming up from the south. Vladimir had lighted a small lantern with a body of brass and thin windows of close-cut mica. The stone had been poorly shaved, so the light was muted and dim, but it was better than an open flame in the cabin. Round shutters had been pulled back from the windows, too, and the fresh breeze off of the sea made the little room pleasant. Dwyrin sat on the edge of his bunk, his eyes never far from the hunched shape of Vladimir. The "man" had put on a loose shirt of white cotton with large sleeves to go with his dark leggings.
Dinner had been a thick fish stew, spiced with an inordinate amount of garlic. Dwyrin had almost gagged at the taste, but Nicholas and the Walach had dug in with such relish that he felt he had to go along. His throat was still burning, and he knew that he would be tasting the bulb for a long time. Some loaves of bread, purchased fresh from a bakery in the city that morning, and watered wine completed their meal. The Hibernian toyed with a crust, thinking that it was one of the better meals-not counting the garlic, of course-that he had enjoyed in the past year. Legion food was not much to speak of. Nicholas had made the stew, which explained the garlic and the robust flavor.
"Have you been to this place before? This Aelia Capitolina?" Vladimir's mouth was full, but he managed to get the words out, anyway. The way his long white teeth worried at the bread set Dwyrin on edge, but despite his first impression, the man was not one of the dead-that-walked. The set of his eyes, though, reminded the Hibernian far too much of the Bygar Dracul. That one was dead, but the memory remained like a lesion on his spirit.
"No," Nicholas said, picking his teeth with a sliver of wood. "Constantinople is the farthest east I'd been before this. Lad, have you been there?"
Dwyrin shook his head. Aelia Capitolina was one of the hill-cities in Judea, across the wasteland of the Sinai from Egypt. He had heard a little about it-a rough land with rocky valleys and hilltop orchards-but had never set foot there. "Sorry, Centurion, I've been in Egypt at the School and up in Armenia. We kind of skipped the whole middle part…"
Nicholas sighed, then flicked the splinter out the window. "No matter. We're supposed to meet up with the rest of the century in Caesarea, and they-by this roster-are all veterans. They'll know the lay of the land, I'm sure. That will bring our strength up to just over a hundred men. Hopefully it will be enough to deal with these bandits. Hmm… I hope they can all ride, otherwise they'll be in for some rough instruction!"
Dwyrin nodded, though his thoughts were far away from the little cabin on the ship. Aelia Capitolina was not so far from Palmyra; perhaps he could work a finding pattern on his friends-if they could bring themselves to speak to him again. The raw pain throbbed in his gut again, and he reached for his beaker of wine. The sweet grape brought relief from the memories of Zoe's face and her terrible anger.
Nicholas looked over and grinned at Vladimir. The lad had fallen asleep, curled up in the bunk, his gear-bag under his head as a pillow. The Walach shrugged, but he seemed to have relaxed a little. "You're too nervous, my friend. He's a good soldier-he'll follow orders if nothing else. He won't singe your tail…" Vladimir grimaced at the jibe and put his head in his hands. Nicholas watched him carefully. The nervous energy that had marked the Walach the day that they had met the two girls during the Triumph was absent, but something was preying on the dark-haired man's mind. Nicholas' fingers drifted to Brunhilde's hilt, which was close to hand. The touch calmed him, and her whispering voice settled his nerves. Despite what he had told the boy, he kept a very close eye on the Walach. They could not afford another incident, not while on a mission.
"Vlad, something is troubling you. What is it?"
The Walach looked up, his liquid dark eyes filled with lingering fear.
"We left just in time…" Vladimir whispered. "The dark Queen came to me in my dreams last night. If we had not left today, she and hers would hunt me tonight. I care not where we go, as long as it is away from that cursed city."
Nicholas nodded sagely, feeling the weight of his coin purse. It was a good day to leave-before a certain moneylender realized that the Gothic merchant he had lent so much coin to was not a merchant at all. Vladimir got up and crawled into his bunk, his face turned from the dim light of the lantern. Nicholas sat up, and went over the maps and scrawled notes he had received from the office. He was puzzled by the mission. The rapacity of desert bandits was trouble, to be sure, but not usually the kind of thing that he undertook. His masters back in Rome usually set him to hunt a man. This business of a whole province was new.
Rummaging in the dispatch bag, he took out a copy of the original report. It was penned in a straight, strong hand and had come from this hill-town in Judea, this Aelia Capitolina.
To the Magister Militatum, Eastern Empire, Constantinople.
Greetings,
Noble sir, I wish to draw your attention to the depredations of fierce bandits that have taken to infesting the hills around our town. As you know, this place has long been a hotbed of rebellion, religious fanatics, necromancers, and thieves. It pains me to admit that the local garrison, though loyal, is not able to deal with the troubles that beset us. To understand this, I must relate some of the history of this old city, once called Hierosolyma in the time of the Divine Emperor Trajan, or-in the native tongue-Jerusalem…
Nicholas read on, seeing a litany of feuds and wars and petty death. At last, his eyes grimy with exhaustion, he put the documents away and climbed into his own bunk. The roll and slap of the waves lulled him to sleep in moments. Soon they would reach the coast of Judea and get all these troubles straightened out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Jabal Al'jilf, Outside Petra, Capital of Roman Nabatea
Mohammed crouched down, his black beard and face thrown in sharp relief by the light of the hooded lantern he held in his hand. The lantern was a bronze box with an iron loop and a wooden handle. The candle inside was of the best beeswax that his foragers could find and it burned cleaner than he had hoped. His hand moved over the planed surface of the tunnel wall, feeling a rough patch. At some time in the past there had been an earth tremor, and the underground passage had been damaged. Part of the mountain that the tunnel bored through had slipped a foot or more. Artisans whose skill did not match the craft of the men who had first cut the tunnel had repaired it, leaving a jumble of bricks and plaster at the slippage point. Mohammed held the lantern out, peering into the tunnel beyond.
The passage continued, though it would be a bit of a squeeze to make it through the break. The Quraysh turned and nodded to the men behind him. Then he ducked down and crawled through on one hand, the other holding the lantern just above the dusty floor. Like the long flight of steps that he and his army had ascended to reach the passage, it was cut from the raw sandstone of the mountains.
A hundred of the Sahaba followed him through the heart of the ridge, their swords sheathed or their spears muffled with wool. Despite this, the sound of their movement seemed very loud, magnified by the close space of the tunnel. They had crossed a highland plateau just after dark, after spending the heat of late afternoon toiling up into the hills that held the hanging gardens and water cisterns serviced by this passage. The main entrance to the city Siq, lay barely two hundred yards to their north. That passage was a narrow road that wound through a tight canyon. It was dark and twisty, with a man at midday unable to see the sun above his head. A dozen soldiers could hold it against an army, where it reached the first sight of the city. An elaborate tomb was there, where the passage suddenly opened out into daylight, and a garrison post. Mohammed had no intention of trying to force his way through that dogleg trap.
His army moved through the fringes of the rugged terrain that bounded the hidden city, following a goat path and tracks worn by farmers who cultivated tiny crops of wheat and rye and squash in meager patches of soil in the high canyons.
Steep cliffs and round-browed mountains ringed Petra in a fierce barricade. There were no gentle slopes of pine or juniper, but sheer wind-carved red stone instead. To the undiscerning eye, the heights of Kubtha and Al'Madras seemed impassible, the city impregnable behind the great gate and dam that closed the entrance to Siq. Mohammed had often come to the Red City in his travels and he knew that there were other ways into the fastness. This was one, shown to him by a shepherd with a taste for foreign wine.
Mohammed smiled grimly, thinking that an Arab tribe-not grown soft in this easy northern land-would have put a guard on the dams and springs that provided water to the city. But these were troubled times, and th
e city garrison might have other concerns. The Quraysh laughed inside at that. For his people, water was always the first concern. That, and secret ways into their city that might allow enemies to surprise them while they slept in their beds.
The tunnel ended, opening out onto a wilderness of great round boulders and canted slabs of sandstone. The moon had risen and the rocks were bathed in a cool light. Mohammed cast about with the lantern and then found a stairway leading down to the left. Beyond it, a path wound between the huge monoliths, cutting across the head of a narrow streambed that had worn its way into the rock of the mountain.
– |The entrance of the army of the Sahaba into Aelana had been a surprise to Mohammed. He knew that the ships of his small fleet could make better time on the wave-road than his cavalry could in the rocky uplands and desert that they crossed to get from Leuke Kome to the northern port. He had not expected, however, to find the green-and-white banner of the Sahaba flying over the white-painted gate tower of the town, or to be met by a smiling and relaxed Khalid in the shadow of that same gateway.
"There was no garrison?" Khalid had nodded in assent as they had climbed the steps to the dingy tan building that had held the customs office.
Mohammed shook his head in amazement. "They were withdrawn to the north a month ago, according to Feyd here." Khalid had indicated a stooped man with a sun-browned face who had joined them once Mohammed's command staff had reached the center of the town. The man, obviously a local, had a green-and-white flash on his tunic loop. "There is some trouble brewing up in Judea and the governor has summoned all available troops to a muster."
Mohammed had turned, his hand on the hilt of his saber, and surveyed the big room with its arched roof. Once, it had held the men who worked in the customs house; now it would hold his messengers and staff. Windows with triangular tops pierced the southern wall, showing bits and pieces of the blue gulf beyond and the broad golden beach that marked the seaside. Aelana was not a big town, but it had long piers of fitted stone over compacted rubble that provided a fine anchorage for his ships.
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